The Songbird Sisters

by Rachael Herron

  Jesus.

  It was a helicopter.

  They’d sent a helicopter.

  Chapter Forty

  Two minutes later, the helicopter hovered over the water in front of her. A voice boomed down, the sound God would make if he were in the business of rescuing fallen hikers. “Where’s the victim?”

  Lana pointed. “Down there!” she screamed. How would they hear her?

  The helicopter dipped a little lower. Lana could look right into the open door. The man crouched inside was wearing a blue helmet and dark glasses. “Ma’am, we can’t see her,” the voice boomed. “Did she go into the water? Nod yes or shake your head no.”

  She shook her head and pointed again at the small white body below. “A dog! She’s a dog!” Still pantomiming, Lana jumped up and down, pulling her hands up like she was begging for food. She barked, as loudly as she could.

  The pilot’s mic opened again, and the voice boomed, “Ma’am, we don’t – wait, dude, is she saying it’s a dog?”

  Lana nodded her head as hard as she could. In the distance, under the roar of the helicopter, she heard sirens approaching.

  The distinct sound of a snort came over the microphone.

  A pause. “All right, ma’am. The fire department will be on scene soon. Hold tight.”

  It took an hour to bring Emily Dickinson up. Lana knew the firefighters from when they were kids cruising Darling Bay during those long, boring summers. And here they were, trying to save her dog.

  Who was probably dead.

  Lana’s heart broke into pieces at the thought. She’d let Emily Dickinson leap to her death. Because she’d walked her right to the edge of the cliff, her little dog had probably died.

  Tox Ellis and Coin Keefe rigged up a rope-and-harness system. The helicopter flew away as they worked, a graceful dragonfly arcing into the distance.

  Coin went over the edge. He appeared thrilled to be doing the rappelling.

  The press showed up just as Coin put Emily Dickinson into Lana’s arms. They managed to get a few pictures of her crying, in which she was sure she looked amazing. She had wind-chapped cheeks and red eyes from the crying she hadn’t even known she’d been doing while watching Coin being hoisted up. Emily Dickinson looked stunned, but after palpating her limbs, the paramedics had said they didn’t think she’d broken anything. Tox said, “Take her to the vet. The emergency clinic should be open. Looks like she got lucky, though. This here scratch on her side is the only real damage, and it’s almost stopped bleeding.”

  Poor bloody little dog. Emily Dickinson trembled, licking the underside of Lana’s chin.

  Tox used his body to block the pushiest photographer. “Can’t be fun to be chased by paparazzi. I’ll distract ’em. You get.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice shook.

  Tox nodded and turned. In a booming voice, he shouted, “Hey! Did you see where her other dog went? You, with the camera, can you get a good zoomed-in look at the beach down there?”

  Lana made it back to town safely, but her hands shook so much she could barely take the key out of the ignition when she parked in front of the vet’s office. After X-rays and a few stitches to the wound on her side, Emily Dickinson got a pain pill and became exponentially friendlier. “She’s going to be pretty out of it,” said the vet, a short, round man with a shiny red forehead.

  “Is that bad for her?” Lana asked in mild horror as the dog humped the vet’s ankle.

  “Her spine looked fine.” He shook his leg gently, and Emily Dickinson attached herself to Lana’s boot, humping the leather lightly. “This particular pain shot sometimes has that effect.”

  She spoke without thinking. “Like me on tequila.”

  The vet blinked, hard, but kept his face neutral. “She just needs a lot of rest, to heal. It’ll take time, maybe about a week.”

  Wouldn’t that be nice? If all life’s anguish got better in seven days?

  Lana left her car at the vet’s, hoping she could sneak onto the hotel grounds without the press noticing. She carried Emily Dickinson carefully, happy that the humping stopped as soon as she picked her up. The licking of Lana’s neck didn’t, but she could deal with that.

  “Lana!”

  “There she is!”

  “Over here!”

  Lana forgot for a moment what the hell they could want from her. Her arms tightened around the dog. Who cared about Lana Darling anymore? No one, that was who.

  Then she remembered. That damn song. The video with Taft.

  “You’re over a million views, and rising!” shouted one man wearing an orange ball cap. “Just a few sentences, Lana, how does it feel to rocket back into the public eye?”

  Adele burst out the front door of the saloon, carrying a broom. If she’d been wearing a long dress, she would have looked like an old-fashioned barmaid, sweeping out the drunken clientele. As it was, she was wearing a short denim skirt and just looked pissed. “Quit it! Out! Off!” When one of the cameramen pointed a lens at her, Adele mimed where she wanted to stick the end of her broom, and he got the picture quickly, pointing the lens back at Lana.

  “Go away!” yelled Adele.

  Lana, though, remembered how the press got. The more they ran away from them, the hungrier and more vicious they’d get. “Adele, I’ll just talk to them. It’s okay. Then they can go.” They would, too, after Lana told them she was out of the business. “There’s really no story here. I’ll explain that to them.”

  “Are you sure?” Adele jabbed her broom at the toes of a young woman who’d gotten too close with her microphone. The reporter squeaked and jumped backward, almost falling off the saloon porch.

  Adele’s fierceness was one of her best qualities. “I’m sure.” Lana checked the light. “This swing is all right, isn’t it, guys?” She sat, placing Emily Dickinson gently next to her.

  There were only four reporters and six camera crew, but it seemed as if there were dozens as they trained their sights on her. Three of them spoke at once.

  “You.” Lana pointed. “In the hat. You first.”

  “So, are you and Taft Hill together?”

  Lana should have expected it, but the question felt dropped from an airplane onto the top of her head. “No.” The answer was quick and automatic.

  It was true.

  And horrible.

  “So that was just an act?”

  “What?”

  The man looked at her as if she were lacking important brain cells. “The whole lovey-dovey thing on camera with Taft, while you were singing that song? You kissed!”

  “Just an act.”

  “So you’re not an item. Not even dating?” This came from the young woman who’d gotten her toes poked by the broom.

  “Not even dating.” Emily Dickinson started slowly humping Lana’s forearm. A blush started at her hairline.

  “But you wrote the song together.”

  Lana took a breath. It was always best to stay as close to the truth as possible, to save later embarrassment. “We did.”

  “Were you together then?”

  She looked at another man, ignoring the question. “Did you have a question?”

  “We hear you’ve written with Taft Hill before.”

  A chill ran through her. “What?”

  “Have you?”

  She smiled slightly, disengaging Emily Dickinson from her wrist. “You know, I’ve written with so many people over the years. The interesting part is this, though, I’ve decided to leave the –”

  “How much of ‘Blame Me’ is autobiographical?”

  The chill turned to ice cubes in her stomach. “Sorry?”

  “You’re the songwriter, right?” The man’s eyes were the color of mud. He flipped a page of his notebook. “You performed it at a venue a few months ago. Sources say he bought it and rewrote it with you, but that it’s about you and an attack that happened in your life when you were younger.”

  Taft.

  He was the only one who could have told them.r />
  Unless one of her sisters had – but, no. She caught sight of Adele’s face, and she looked as confused and upset as Lana felt.

  Taft had told reporters she’d written “Blame Me.”

  He’d told them about what happened that dark night. Coldness soaked into her bones.

  “I’m so sorry to push you like this –” the man wasn’t sorry, Lana could tell he was almost gleeful “– but when did the rape happen? How old were you? Did you have counseling? Who else did you tell? Have you recovered?”

  A standard move – ask enough different questions and hope the truth spills out. She worked as hard as she’d ever done anything to keep a mild look on her face. “Sorry, pal. You’re barking up the wrong tree, I’m afraid. Just a story I was telling. Sometimes writers do that. “Ghost Riders in the Sky” isn’t about real ghosts, did you ever think about that?”

  The reporter looked disgruntled that his big push hadn’t worked. “But –”

  “Look.” Lana sat forward. Emily Dickinson slid off the swing and began humping Lana’s ankle in a desultory, sleepy way. Lana shook her leg, but the dog was as determined as a drunk trying to pull out a stuck cork. “You should know. I’m leaving – no, I’ve left the music industry. Writing that song with Mr. Hill was my last action. I’m sorry to let you down, but there’s just no story here.”

  “Are you leaving to get married? To Taft?”

  “If you’re not together, is it because of your previous rape?”

  “Will you two have kids?”

  “Is this why your sister started her women’s shelter hotline?”

  It wasn’t fair. None of this was.

  The assault had been her secret. She’d been planning on keeping it to her grave. Now the whole world would know.

  Now the whole world would feel sorry for her.

  Worse, they’d want to help her.

  For the rest of her goddamned life, if she didn’t fix the spin, she’d be known as the Abuse Singer. The one who was raped and wrote about it.

  That’s all she would be: an object of pity, a woman who deserved a soft tone, an empathetic smile.

  It was Taft’s fault.

  “It’s a fictional song, about a fictional woman. It’s helped bring his career back from the brink, I’ve heard.”

  “Hey, now.” Taft’s laughing voice came from her right. “What are y’all talking about? Are these folks bothering you, Lana? Should I move them along?”

  Oh, good. Her hero, to the goddamn rescue. “No –”

  The reporters all changed their clamoring, like birdsong that speeded up when thunder rumbled. Their words were louder, faster.

  “Are you two together?”

  “Are you in love?”

  “Will you write more songs together?”

  “When can we expect a new recording?”

  Taft – looking like a country-album cover in his blue chambray shirt and dark-brown cowboy hat – leaned on a porch post and crossed his arms. “Don’t go getting overexcited, y’all.” He was playing up his Nashville drawl, and Lana hated it. “There will be a new album. Three more songs – no, make that two now – and we’ll record it and get it right out to everybody. You’re gonna love it.”

  “Will you write the last two songs with him, Lana?”

  Lana wasn’t even sure which reporter had asked, but it didn’t matter. She looked into the biggest camera, the one with the biggest lens with the biggest network logo on its side. “Taft Hill is known as an excellent songwriter, but the truth is a little different. He exploits the weaknesses of his fellow musicians.”

  All the cameras panned to pin her in their sights.

  She looked right at Taft, ignoring the soft thumping of Emily Dickinson at her calf.

  “Lana,” he said.

  “He’s not the real deal, that’s what you should know.” Lana’s stomach hurt. “He’s gotten as far as he has by lying about who he is.”

  “Who’s that, Lana?”

  “Who is he?”

  Taft said softly, “Lana, no.”

  “He’s not Palmer Hill’s son.”

  A muscle jumped at Taft’s jaw. The sides of his mouth turned white.

  “Who is he, Lana?”

  “Who’s his father?”

  “Who knows?” Lana said. She wanted to vomit and hoped desperately she’d get out of the camera’s eye before she did.

  “Taft, what do you have to say to that?”

  Taft didn’t even look at the reporter or the camera. He looked only at her. “Why?” His voice was grief made audible.

  “Because you told them about ‘Blame Me.’”

  He knit his brows. “You think I would do that?”

  She shouldn’t keep talking in front of the cameras. She should shut up. “I didn’t think you would, no. That’s why it hurts so much.”

  “Jesus, Lana.” He took a deep breath and bent halfway at the waist, as if he’d been kicked in the groin. Then he straightened. “I didn’t tell them anything about you. I would never do that.” His eyes were broken glass, his gaze full of shards.

  He took a step off the porch. His boots scuffed the dirt and then his heels hit the pavement.

  For a moment, Lana could hear nothing but his footsteps as he stalked away. The media people were saying things, words that made no sense, sentences she didn’t bother to parse.

  If he hadn’t told them, who had?

  Her sisters wouldn’t, Lana knew.

  She pulled out her cell and continued to tune out the reporters’ words. If she just waited long enough on this swing, they’d get tired and go away, right? Eventually they’d get hungry and leave her to dry up. She’d turn into dust, blowing away on the ocean breeze. Hopefully.

  She scrolled through the texts. So many of them, from so many people she’d forgotten she’d ever known. Sam in Reno. The guitar player in Dallas. Sandy in DC, and darling Carrie from Richmond.

  There it was.

  Jilly’s text.

  Chapter Forty-One

  They tricked me. I’m so sorry. They were probably calling everyone who knew you. They got me in a weak moment. They called because of the video, but they kept pushing and wanted to know if you and Taft had ever worked together, and you know what a bad liar I am.

  It was true. Jilly couldn’t even tell a polite lie, the your-haircut-is-great kind of fib.

  I should have just hung up, but the guy was so good about keeping me on the phone, and he kept badgering me.

  Of course the guy had been good. He was probably from one of the big media sites, the tawdry online-only ones (the ones that got the truth more often than not, because they didn’t fear barging into anything. They would scoop funerals when they could get away with it).

  It just slipped out. He asked if there was a story behind “Blame Me” and I said no, but then I’d accidentally confirmed it. I know he didn’t believe me. He’d already jumped on it, and then he’d hung up and it was too late. I’m so sorry. I don’t blame you if you never want to be friends again.

  At this moment?

  No, Lana didn’t want to be friends with Jilly.

  She stood. Emily Dickinson reluctantly detached from her ankle. “Sorry, kids, this fun is over.”

  Lana ignored them all. She went through the bar (they followed), into the back storage room (they stopped) and into the arbor. She started running then, and didn’t slow until she was inside her room. Emily Dickinson panted ecstatically and guzzled water, doing several fast laps of the room while barking. Lana sat on the small sofa, which gave with a dusty wheeze. The dog leaped into her lap.

  Lana tried very hard not to cry.

  It took all her concentration, which was good. She didn’t have much to spare for anything else for a minute. Maybe two.

  Then the sadness crept back in.

  And the guilt.

  The anger, too, came back, thank God.

  Fury was better – so much better than the regret she was starting to feel, deep red and viscous, like congea
led blood.

  Jilly should never have told anyone anything. It wasn’t right.

  Even by accident.

  It wasn’t right to share a person’s deepest secret to anyone, let alone the media.

  Lana would always be the rape victim, from here on out. Forever.

  Then the truth sank in.

  Lana groaned and covered her eyes. She drew up her legs and felt pain bloom behind her temples.

  By telling the reporters about Taft not being Palmer’s son, she’d done the exact same thing.

  Worse.

  Her assault was in the past. It changed how she looked at the world, of course, and it always would. But it was already hers, already something she knew how to live with.

  Because of her, Taft would now and forever be the man who had lied about the very essence of who he was.

  Of course, no matter what, Taft had never been Palmer. He was good – maybe even great – but his father had been bigger than Johnny Cash. If Taft had tried his entire life, he would have attained Palmer’s status by the time he was sixty. Maybe seventy.

  Now he never would.

  Taft would never be seen as heir to the throne.

  He’d be the usurper. Forever. The liar. The cheat.

  It was Lana’s fault.

  I am the kind of woman who tells a secret and breaks a man’s life.

  She finally cried then, her tears so hot they burned her cheeks. She didn’t cry for herself – she didn’t deserve a single tear spent.

  Lana cried for Taft.

  For what she’d done to him.

  For the way she’d blown up whatever they’d had a tiny chance of ever having together. He’d told her sister about her assault, trying to do the right thing.

  She’d ruined his life, publicly, on purpose.

  They were children squabbling over a swing at the playground, and instead of choosing another swing, she’d dropped a nuclear bomb that took out the whole city.

  She’d blown all of it into kingdom come and she wanted to fly away into dust along with the wreckage.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Bourbon on the porch.

  That’s what Taft had, and it was almost all he had left in the world.